Page 21 of Square Waves (Big Fan #2)

XX

When I pull up to the store on Wednesday morning, it’s buzzing with activity.

For weeks, the space has belonged almost entirely to me, Willa, and Leon.

Now it’s crawling with strangers: caterers bringing in trays of food and guys in black T-shirts setting up a bar.

The sudden loss of our cozy summer camp vibes takes me by surprise—my rational brain knew this was coming, but not how it would make me feel.

I fight the urge to mourn the closing of that minichapter and fight even harder to ignore the fact that it’s the prelude to the end of my trip.

Now’s the time to focus on being my friend’s hype girl.

Willa is standing at the center of the room training the women who will be working the register, students she found by posting flyers around campus, and there’s a team bringing in heavy, framed paintings and leaning them against the walls.

I walk over to her during a brief pause in the chaos and grab her arms. “Holy shit! It’s all really happening! ”

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes wide. “It is.” She looks like it’s all really hitting her: sort of excited, mostly overwhelmed.

I nod at one of the men handling a painting. “I didn’t realize you had art coming from anyone other than Leon.”

I mean, I’m guessing here, but these are very different from what he had in his bedroom. The one that’s currently being hung is abstract, large scale, a little dark. Next to that sits a carefully rendered portrait of a woman in a dentist’s chair.

“Oh yeah, that happened really last minute. Actually—” But she’s interrupted by someone with a question about where they should store the ice. Then someone else is at her side to report that the internet is on the fritz.

I touch Willa’s shoulder. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

She closes her eyes for a second, and I can almost see her sorting through her mental to-do list. “Will you see if you can find the box of shirts that arrived the other day? I want to make sure they don’t need to be steamed before we hang them up.”

“Of course.” I give her shoulder a squeeze before letting go.

“Thank you, Cass.”

I head into the back room, where the box was almost certainly shoved into a corner when it arrived during the plumbing emergency. I’m also hoping to find Leon, give him a hug, and maybe catch a glimpse of his paintings before they’re up for all to see.

I spot him as soon as I walk into the room.

He’s in the corner, chatting up a vaguely familiar-seeming older man, both of their backs to me.

Leon has traded his usual worn-in Dickies for black twill pants.

His collared shirt fits his shoulders perfectly, but he’s still himself: There’s a Giants cap keeping his hair out of his way.

He lights up when he sees me, and all I can think is that as good as it used to feel to annoy him, it’s so much better to make him beam. “Cassidy!” he waves me over.

His companion turns around, and I realize why he seemed familiar.

It’s Richard Kerrigan. He nods in greeting.

It’s a perfectly friendly gesture, but there’s something slightly stilted about it.

An awkwardness that makes me think that, in the space between our first meeting and our second, he figured out where he knew me from.

The inkling feels like a needle, scratching at my skin.

All of the unease I’ve been trying to ignore settles, cold and insistent, at the base of my skull.

I smile brightly. I will make this interaction comfortable if it kills me.

“Richard! It’s so good to see you again.

I didn’t know you were going to be here, but I’m sure Willa is thrilled.

” Last I heard, he had a dinner that conflicted with the actual party.

Maybe he decided to pop by early to check out the space anyway.

“I didn’t either,” Richard says. “But Leon called last night, explaining that some work that was supposed to be hung up had gotten delayed, and I thought—how could I say no?”

Everything slows down as my brain connects a series of unpleasant dots. “Delayed,” I repeat. But I would know if anything was held up. If we were waiting on anything other than Leon’s paintings.

I look at him, willing him to give me some other explanation. “Richard loaned us some really exciting pieces,” he says.

“I’m happy more people will be able to see them,” Richard adds.

The bottom falls out of my stomach. I feel so stupid, standing there, my congratulations for Leon slowly fading from my tongue. When did this happen? Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he try harder to make it not happen? What happened to his redemption arc?

What happened to being so different than he was all those years ago?

I don’t have to deal with Leon right now , I tell myself.

Willa needs me. “That’s so cool. Do you guys mind if I slip behind you?

” My voice is coming out strangled, too high, but I plow ahead anyway.

“Willa asked me to grab something, and I think it’s right—” I point to a maroon shirt poking out of a half-opened box.

Leon watches me, but if he has questions about my tone, he doesn’t ask them.

Instead he asks, “Can I help?”

“No.” I heave the box into my arms. “I don’t need anything from you.”

Before I know it, it’s 6p.m., and I’m in the bathroom, changing into the dress I wore to Willa’s birthday party. When I chose it, I’d been hoping that Leon might remember, compliment me on it, maybe slip a hand under the skirt, just briefly: a promise for later.

But now I don’t even want to look at him.

I’m so annoyed—pissed, in fact—that he didn’t take this opening seriously enough to deliver what he was supposed to.

Procrastination was one thing when we were teenagers, but all anyone’s told me since I got here is how much he’s changed.

The fact that he couldn’t get it together for Willa—on today of all days—is pretty serious evidence to the contrary.

I finish tugging up the zipper at my back and give myself a once-over in the mirror. My hair is long and loose and golden over my shoulders; the dress is a simple navy that’s polished but still fun. I look nice, I think. I still look like I have my shit together, even if I absolutely do not.

I open the bathroom door, and Leon is standing there. Judging by the look on his face, he agrees with my self-assessment. “Wow,” he says.

He leans in to kiss me. And at the last second, I turn my head so that he just catches the edge of my mouth.

I know I’m being bitchy. I start to give him an excuse about not wanting to mess up my lip gloss, but I stop myself.

This is probably the last quiet moment before the party starts.

I either say something now or keep stewing and make things awkward all night long.

“Can I ask you something?” I start.

“Yeah.” Leon reaches up to hook his fingers over the edge of the doorframe. It only emphasizes how lanky he is, and I feel a flash of familiar desire to press my palms to his exposed strip of stomach. To nudge my forehead into his neck and pretend everything’s fine, actually.

But I’ve done enough pretending.

“What happened? With your paintings?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve been working on them for months. But nothing felt right. And I thought I would have more time this last week to work through some new ideas, but when we—”

“Oh, so this is my fault somehow? That I’ve been a distraction?” The anger I’ve been trying to keep at a simmer leaps to a boil.

Leon’s hand drops, and he takes a half step back from me.

“Hey. That’s not at all what I meant. I was just saying—something happened.

Things changed. And listen, Cass, something came to me that I do want to paint, that does feel right, but it requires more time.

” He scans my face to see if I’m softening.

I think he can tell I’m not. “And anyway—Willa and I talked about it. She gets it. I made this loan happen with Richard, and he called a guy from the Chronicle . So now they’re going to report on the opening.

How Willa is bridging the old-school Bay art scene and the new one. ”

My only response is a frustrated shrug.

“Why do you still seem upset about this?”

“Because I am upset! Because—” I start. But I can’t bring myself to say the next words. Because if you fail Willa, you will fail me too.

Leon hears plenty in my silence. “You know, I thought we had agreed to be over our high school bullshit,” he says.

“But it’s like you’re looking for something like this.

For some reason to remind me that no one will ever forget that I was a fuckup first and foremost, you most of all.

Do you need me to be embarrassed, Cassidy? Will that make you feel better?”

“That’s not what I—”

Leon takes a deep breath. “Listen. The party’s about to start.” He’s lowered his voice. “Let’s not do this now. To Willa. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He walks past me into the bathroom and closes the door in my face.

I have to go outside to collect myself. I snag a glass of wine from the caterers on the way. It’s a chardonnay—never my preference—but that doesn’t matter because I can barely taste it.

How dare Leon act like I’m being unreasonable for asking a simple fucking question. About something he told me he was committed to doing and then didn’t . Instead he covered his ass like he did with Procrastination . And is patting himself on the back and getting credit for it in the same way too.

The more I ruminate, the angrier I get. Clearly we’ve both been fooling ourselves all week, thinking we could grow and change . There’s just too much history here, and good sex does not erase that.

I’m leaving in a few days anyway. I’ll leave Leon and whatever feelings I had for him here. Shove him out of my head like I’ve done with so many things. Go back to my stupid messed-up life in DC and... attempt to fix that, I guess.

The thought is like a pinprick to the balloon of my anger, and suddenly all I can feel is how sad and tired and scared I am. Tears gather in the corners of my eyes.

My phone buzzes in my bag with a text from Izzy: Jo and I are here. Where are you??

I take a deep breath. I blot at my undereyes with my fingertips. Leon was right about one thing: I have to get through the rest of the night without Willa worrying about me even once. Tomorrow I’ll sort all of this nonsense out.

So I affix a mask of cheerfulness to my face. Check my camera to make sure my mascara hasn’t run and fluff my hair. Then I go inside, where the party is starting.